The Sport of Kings

Aug 15, 2025 Features / Columnists, Peeping Tom

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Kaieteur News – I have always believed horse racing is the sport of kings. Which is unfortunate, because I’m not a king. I’m not even a prince. If I were to claim a title, it would be “The Duke of Cheap Seats,” which, unlike the real nobility, means standing behind a fence, craning my neck around a man who insists on wearing a sombrero the size of the moon.

But that’s horse racing for you—particularly in Guyana—where on Guyana Cup Sunday, thousands descend on the track. The excitement starts when the gates open—both the starting gates for the horses and the entry gates for the spectators. Once inside, the rich and famous float up the stairs into their VIP and VVIP boxes, sipping beer and cheap rum, while the rest of us, not fortunate to be accorded VVIP and VIP status or to get a complimentary pass into the pavilion, reserved for owners and trainers and their lone lines of children, grandchildren, uncles, aunties and cousins, are herded toward the stands like we’re part of the pre-race livestock parade.

They call the seating “general admission,” but that’s misleading. There’s nothing general about being crammed so tightly you can hear the digestive decisions of the person next to you. We’re like sardines. And not the nice imported kind in olive oil. No—the ones in brine with the sun beating in and a small child standing on your toes to get a better view.

Meanwhile, in the VIP area, they’ve got plush chairs, linen tablecloths, and supposedly good company. In the VVIP section—because apparently “very important” wasn’t important enough—they have even more exclusive seating. “I hear they’ve got fresh coconut water vapor circulating in their VVIP boxes, just so their drinks taste properly tropical.” Then there are the pavilion folks who didn’t have to pay the new astronomical entrance fee. No, they’re given complimentary passes. Which is ironic, because if anyone can afford to pay, it’s them.

And then there’s us, the devoted turfites, whose loyalty to the sport is measured in sunburns and how long we can hold a plastic cup of beer without spilling it when a horse stumbles at the turn. We pay the full price, including for the “live entertainment” after the races—which is fine, except half of us didn’t come for the after-show. Would it kill them to have a “Just Let Me See the Horses” ticket option?

But no—one ticket fits all, unless you’re VIP or VVIP. Then you can wander in and out at will, like visiting royalty. They arrive fashionably late, just in time for the big race, their sunglasses large enough to shade small villages, and the only horses many of them see are the ones on the programme.

The prize money this year for the Guyana Cup has been advertised at $50 million. Let me repeat that: Fifty. Million. Dollars. That’s multiple times the purse of other meets, which means the horses are running for more than some politicians have declared in assets. And yet, of that $50 million, how much is being spent on actual improvements for the ordinary spectators? If you guessed “just enough to paint over last year’s peeling rail,” congratulations—you’ve been to the races before.

This is the strange economy of horse racing: the sport is kept alive by the roaring, sweating, sunburned masses, but all the best seating, shade, space, and free-flowing drinks are reserved for the few who could survive without ever setting foot at the track. Without the common crowd, the Guyana Cup would look like a private garden party with a couple of horses running laps in the background. But instead of rewarding the people who actually create the atmosphere, they cram us in tighter and raise the entrance fee.

At some point, someone must have thought: “What would really make the loyal fans happy? Oh, I know—less space and higher prices!”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love the races. I love the rush when the horses hit the homestretch, the way strangers suddenly become your cousins when you both have money on the same horse, and the fact that in those moments, the crowd is united in a roar that can frighten pigeons in Georgetown. But I also think it would be nice if we didn’t have to risk heatstroke and being squeezed to death to enjoy it. Maybe just a little more seating. A sliver of shade. Perhaps a policy that doesn’t require standing behind a man who insists on doing windmill arm stretches every two minutes. But hey, who am I to complain? I’m not VIP. I’m not VVIP. I’m not even “Important.” I’m just another sardine, standing – not sitting – in the stands, waiting for the day when the people who actually fill the stands will be considered deserving of a better view than the back of someone’s sombrero.

(The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of this newspaper.)

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• Horse Racing, Jumbo Jet, Kings, Peeping Tom

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